The Bradgate Park Murders: Carlos Jacobi, #2

PROLOGUE

The mornings were becoming lighter now it was mid-February. Although there was a sharp frost on the ground as he walked, there was every indication it was going to be a bright day once the sun broke through the early mist.

William Craig, whose few friends called him Bill, was beginning to enjoy his early morning walks through Bradgate Park, especially when he spotted the free-roaming deer. He still had to fight to drag himself out of bed two hours before going to work while it was still dark, but it was well worth it on mornings like today. He wondered if he should try running, but the doctor had told him to start with brisk walks to build up his stamina. Running would have to wait until he was fitter.

The health scare a few weeks before had brought things to a head, and the doctor’s lecture had frightened him enough to finally address his longstanding weight issues. At nineteen, he weighed twice as much as the majority of his peers, and he’d been perpetually bullied since primary school over his size. There was no insult he hadn’t heard, but all the bullying did was push him to find solace in food, causing him to eat more.

Being a loner, he had been easily lured by the sense of belonging into the wrong crowd. He had felt powerful for a time, even though he hated some of the stuff he’d got involved in. That lifestyle ended up with his gang being ensnared in a knife fight where his so-called mates left him to his attackers once they realised they were losing, and he had barely escaped with his life.

The fight that almost cost him dearly had occurred six months ago in the Foxdale area in Leicester. Foxdale had always been a troubled and crime-ridden part of the city, despite people trying to say otherwise. It was where he’d been born and bred. Growing up in an area where drug dealers and crazed junkies caused havoc on the streets, where prostitutes approached men going to and returning from work, had resulted in a fight for survival for this working-class boy. Add his colour into the mix, and what chance did he have? A fat working-class black teenager with an alcoholic mam, he’d been encouraged to accept his lot and had fallen for the lie until the knife fight changed everything.

His hand automatically reached down to the area below his liver where the attack had left him with a scar. Looking back now, he realised it was the best thing that had ever happened to him, because the near-death experience gave him the strength to make a decision: he wasn’t going to be one of the statistics he read about in the papers. When his mam took up with a waster around the same time, William, as she called him, was no longer welcome in his own home – not that it had been much of a home. His half-brother and half-sister were younger than him, and their dad, Bill’s stepdad, was serving time in prison for aggravated assault. Bill had never got on with his stepdad, but the new guy was bad news.

He asked himself why his mam always chose the wrong guys? Since his aunt and uncle had taken him in, his life had changed for the better. His aunt helped him get a place in college and a garage apprenticeship, and now he was on a health drive. The only fly in the ointment was a constant worry about how his mam and younger siblings were doing. He wished he was strong enough to make life better for them, but his mam didn’t seem to want to change.

Shaking such thoughts from his head, Bill turned up the volume of the music on his phone. In doing so, he accidentally jerked the Earpod from his right ear. He cursed, then stopped in his tracks when he heard a phone ringing. He stared around in the semi-light, checking there was no-one about. Then he stared at the phone in his hand and muted Drake’s Nice for What.

The ringtone definitely wasn’t his; it was coming from somewhere to the right of his feet. Following the sound, he saw lights flashing from the screen of a latest model iPhone, nestled in a clump of grass.

He picked it up.

‘Hello?’

‘You’ve done it this time, Dev. I don’t know why I put up with you so long – you had no idea how to be a husband, and now it seems you have no idea how to be a father. If you’re with some bimbo, put her down and remember who you are. I can’t believe you’ve done this to me, and now⁠—’

Bill tried to speak. ‘Erm⁠—’

‘Don’t you dare insult me with your pathetic excuses! Your children have just been collected by your mother because you didn’t have the decency to let me know you weren’t coming. You’re not the only one with a job, you know…’

As the tirade continued, Bill debated throwing the phone back where he’d found it. Instead, he removed his other Earpod, put the phone on speaker and continued his walk, letting the mad woman rant.

He was about to try interrupting again when he noticed a huge cream tent just ahead. The remnants of a campfire and empty beer bottles were strewn around the ground. Camping wasn’t allowed in the park, but sometimes, according to his aunt, people pitched there to enjoy the wild surroundings. The tent door flapped in an otherwise silent breeze. He heard another phone ringing incessantly inside, but no-one answered. Bill wondered if the phone he was holding and the mad woman belonged to someone in the tent.

The voice on the phone drew his attention away for a moment.

‘DEV! DEV! ARE YOU LISTENING? DON’T GIVE ME THE SILENT TREATMENT AGAIN.’

Bill couldn’t understand why the woman’s ranting and the other phone ringing hadn’t attracted any attention from whoever was inside the tent. He stooped down and peered through the door flap, dropping the phone when he saw what was inside.

‘I’m warning you, Dev. I’ll take you to court and ban your visiting rights⁠—’

Bill picked the phone up off the floor and ended the call. With trembling hands, he dialled 999.

THREE WEEKS EARLIER

1

The Sickle was packed with a predominantly middle-aged crowd and the first words Carlos Jacobi heard were expletives. He was thankful he’d dressed down for the meeting. No-one paid him any attention as he made his way through huddles of people to the bar. He spotted his contact propped up against it, drinking a pint of bitter.

Carlos assessed the man from a short distance away before introducing himself. He was built like a brick wall and carried a thick overcoat which was draped over his left arm, holding the pint in his right hand. The man on the phone had described the exact spot where he’d be inside the pub, and now Carlos had set eyes on him, he realised how he could guarantee the space somewhere this busy. The guy’s face cried ex-boxer, with evidence of a nose that had suffered multiple breaks; his skin was like sawdust. He sported tattoos on both hands, starting on his fingers, and most likely extending up his arms. A gold ring through the nose wasn’t the most sensible thing to wear in what Carlos assumed was the man’s line of work – easily grabbable, if one felt inclined. However, one large and protruding chrome ring on the middle finger of his pint-holding hand threatened to do serious damage to any face it came into contact with.

Nevertheless, Carlos was encouraged, convinced he’d found the right man this time. Numerous wasted meetings had taken place over the past few weeks, but his gut told him he was closing in on the thieves.

‘Mr Smith?’ Carlos held out his hand. The heavy’s shifty green eyes focused on the newcomer.

‘You Jacobs?’ Smith’s eyes switched to gleaming as he regarded what he obviously thought would be his prey, rather than the other way around.

So we both used false names. Carlos smiled inwardly, although his stomach knotted when he caught the glint of a blade hanging from Smith’s belt inside his undone denim jacket. Forcing his eyes back on Smith, he grinned.

‘Yes, Tony Jacobs. I’m excited to see the dogs.’

Carlos had been hired by a wealthy dog breeder whose litter of toy poodles had been stolen, he initially suspected to order. But when he followed a lead to the ad that had brought him here, he began to wonder if it was just an opportunist gang. The dog theft racket was rife in London and spreading across the country. Felicity Palmer’s dogs were award-winning and the sire of this particular litter had won Crufts Best in Show two years prior.

Smith pulled a phone from his pocket, tapped a few keys and handed it to Carlos.

‘Take a look.’

‘What can I get you?’ A bartender with red hair and a sweet smile caught Carlos’s attention.

‘I’m not sure we’re staying,’

‘We’ve got time for a drink. I’ll have another bitter, love.’

‘How far is it?’ Carlos checked with Smith before ordering.

‘Depends. If you’re genuinely interested, about ten miles.’ Smith was testing him and Carlos knew it.

‘I’ll have a pint of lager.’

The young woman poured their drinks and Carlos paid for his own. Smith waited to see if Carlos was buying his, too, but he needed to show the man he wasn’t a pushover. Realising he was out of luck, Smith reluctantly took a fiver from his wallet and handed it to the girl.

‘Watch out, she’s giving you the come-on.’

‘Can’t say I noticed,’ Carlos lied. Turning his attention back to the phone screen, he recognised almost certainly the stolen pups and his heart quickened.

‘They’re beautiful. How many have you got?’

‘Why? Are you in the market for more?’ Smith frowned.

‘Could be; which are the bitches you mentioned?’

‘The first three. I could do you a deal if you want more than one.’

‘I’ll think about it when I see them. It’s a possibility, though. They come from champion stock, you said on the phone. Can I see the paperwork?’

‘Sure.’ Smith reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a clump of folded papers, spreading two certificates on the bar.

Carlos studied the Kennel Club certificates for both parents and checked the lineage. He was impressed with how real they looked. Smith then pulled out a Crufts certificate for the sire. Carlos hid the surprise at Smith’s response. He hadn’t been expecting the man to be in possession of legitimate documents; he’d expected delaying tactics. This was a worrying development. Had he got the wrong dogs?

He nodded at Smith. ‘Impressive.’

‘Are you interested, then?’

‘Yes, definitely. Can you forward the photos to my phone?’

‘Why?’

Carlos was prepared for the question. ‘The dog’s a surprise for my fiancée. She wants to take up showing after we’re married, but I wouldn’t be certain which dog she’d prefer. I’ve roped the future mother-in-law in to take a peek.’

Smith looked hesitant, which reassured Carlos once more he was on the right track.

‘My mother-in-law-to-be might want one of the pups as well. The training and everything is something she and Jess could do together. I work away a lot, you see.’

The ploy worked as Smith weighed up the potential gains. ‘You know they’re three grand each?’

‘Yes, three thousand pounds, but you just said you could do a deal if I bought two.’

‘I can knock off a hundred, that’s all. These dogs are highly sought after, know what I’m saying?’

‘And you have Kennel Club documents and vaccination certificates for the pups, too?’

‘Sure do. I just need to take a leak, back in a minute.’

He went to retrieve the certificates, but Carlos held on to them as if studying the details. Smith shrugged and walked in the direction of the gents.

Carlos took his phone out and snapped photos of the certificates. He knew Smith was calling whoever was in charge of the operation to ask whether he could forward photos. The answer was obviously yes, as Carlos’s phone pinged and the images were delivered. Carlos typed a quick text and sent everything to Felicity.

‘I think I’ve found five of them, can you check the pics? Also, are these your dogs’ papers? Just text back yes or no. I’ll call you when I’m in the car.’

Smith arrived back from the gents. ‘Get them all right?’

‘Yes, thanks. I’ve just forwarded them to Jess’s mum.’ Carlos wasn’t going to use any real names in this transaction; he didn’t want to be traced afterwards.

‘Let’s go, then.’ Smith downed his bitter. Carlos still had three quarters of a pint in his glass, but left it on the bar.

‘Have a good evening, fellas,’ the young woman called after them.

An argument was brewing between two groups of men and women as they were leaving. Carlos suspected it was the right time to go. A crowd of bikers pulled up outside, the frontrunners dismounting and pushing their way past him. As he exited the pub, he heard one of the stragglers calling out to Smith.

‘Hey, Greg, where you off to this early?’

Smith, whose first name Carlos now knew, ignored the man and walked across the car park.

‘He’s got business,’ Carlos winked at the guy.

‘I bet. Greg Platt’s always got funny business, that’s for sure.’ The man climbed off his bike and followed his gang into the bar.

Carlos walked over to where Platt-cum-Smith was standing by a top-of-the-range 4x4.

‘Nice wheels,’ he said admiringly.

‘She’s great when you live in the country. Which one’s yours?’

‘The Capri over there.’

Platt whistled. ‘What does she do?’

‘She can pull a hundred easily with her new engine.’ Carlos had been told it was possible by the mechanic who’d replaced the engine in his beloved car six months ago, but he’d never tried that speed. He only used the car when working away and for leisure. It was kept garaged most of the time; he used public transport or Shanks’s pony when in London.

‘Cool,’ Platt said. ‘You shouldn’t have any trouble keeping up, then. Follow me.’

Carlos’s heart sank. Two more thuggish-looking men were coming up behind him.

2

Wracking his brains as to whether he’d noticed the heavies, who were now in the car following behind him, inside the pub, Carlos realised one had been standing close by. Had they seen him take a photo of the certificate? As he drove, he hatched a plan: if asked, he would say he’d sent the photo to his mother-in-law along with the pictures of the puppies to show provenance.

Dog stealing was big money and attracted ruthless gangs who wouldn’t shy away from violence. Carlos assumed he was being taken to a fake address set up for selling stolen dogs. At least the pups he was looking for would be there; he just hadn’t anticipated the extra men. Uncovering the criminal ring wasn’t what he’d been hired to do, no matter how tempting that was.

His phone pinged and a text displayed on his in-car screen.

‘Yes.’

He spoke into the handsfree. ‘Call Felicity.’

‘Carlos, I’m thrilled you’ve tracked them down. Thank you so much. Will you be calling the police?’

‘I thought you said you didn’t want to get the kennel boy into trouble?’ Carlos had quickly found the insider at Felicity’s kennels who had initially denied tipping off the thieves. Under pressure, though, he’d admitted giving details of the new litter to a man who had told the boy he was scouting for a pup for his daughter. Carlos had managed to get a description and tracked the man down to a travellers’ camp. The travellers had sold the litter on and Carlos had been following leads ever since. He didn’t believe the kid’s story, but Felicity wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

‘I don’t really.’

‘Well, at least you sacked him. I haven’t seen the dogs yet and I don’t think they’ll take me to where they are actually being stored.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘These are organised criminals, Felicity. They most likely keep the dogs hidden away in kennels somewhere and move them around. I’m following a guy now, but he’ll be taking me to a short-term rental property or another travellers’ camp. I suspect the former. He doesn’t look like a traveller, more like a hired heavy who acts as a go between.’

‘I assume we’ve lost the sixth pup. Will you be able to get the rest back?’

‘I’m afraid so, and I doubt I’ll get all the others tonight. Not without arousing suspicion. Theoretically, I could if I called the police, but I’ll follow your instructions. Besides, now I’ve seen how organised they are, I want to close this gang down. I’ve offered to buy two tonight for just under six thousand pounds. Alternatively, I could delay and try to follow them after the meeting. I’ve got the real name of one of the men who’s taking me to see them, so that’s something.’

‘Can’t you buy two and follow them, just in case?’

‘Are you sure you want me to pay these men? I can’t guarantee I’ll get your money back.’

‘The money’s not important, Carlos. I can’t bear the thought of my dogs being with these people. Who knows where they’ll end up?’

Carlos sighed; she was right. People duped into buying from criminal gangs might turn out to be good owners, or they might not. This lot weren’t going to be doing home visits or checks like reputable breeders would. Plus, every day the puppies stayed in some seedy kennel, they were at risk of mistreatment, disease and developing behavioural issues for life.

He thought of his own dog, Lady. An ex-police dog, she’d seen enough trauma in her young life to leave her with her own quirks. No dog doing that kind of work remained unscarred, but it affected some more than others.

‘Okay. I’ll buy two. Any preference?’

‘I wouldn’t normally say this, but buy the two who appear to be the weakest. Perhaps we should involve the police after all.’

Carlos felt for her. Breeders usually wanted and sold the best puppies first, sometimes keeping those unsuitable for showing themselves or selling them as family pets.

‘Not yet; let’s stick to the plan. I’ll do my best to get two of them back tonight and I’ll think about following the gang.’ He doubted he’d be able to get away with the latter, not with the two in the car behind keeping tabs.

‘Do you know where you’re heading?’

‘I’ve just seen a sign for Nettlebed, so I’m in Berkshire. I’ve got two guys in a car behind who I assume are heavies paid to make sure nothing goes wrong. The guy in front I met in a pub in Newbury after responding to a vague ad for toy poodle puppies. He seems to know the area, so he could be a local. I’m certain he’s not the ringleader, but he’ll take the rap if they’re caught. They are well-organised, and someone else in the shadows runs this thing.’

‘As much as I’d like them all exposed and arrested, Carlos, I just want my dogs back. If you can do that without getting a teenager a criminal record, I’d appreciate it. After that, you can do what you like.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t lose sight of the task in hand.’

‘Did you mention heavies? You don’t think they’ll be violent, do you? Please be careful – I hadn’t thought you might be in danger.’

‘I’ll be all right as long as I play their game. What did you think of the certificates I photographed?’

‘Very worrying. I’ve just checked and the originals are here, so I can’t imagine where they got the copies from. Ben, the kennel lad, wouldn’t have had access to them.’

I can, thought Carlos, another insider somewhere. ‘I’ll ring you later.’ Carlos ended the call. And as long as the goons